


Twenty-Five Years

by lightspire



Category: due South
Genre: Anniversary, Established Relationship, Fluff, Growing Old Together, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 05:37:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16056632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightspire/pseuds/lightspire
Summary: Fraser and Ray are off on another adventure -- a celebration ride in honor of the 25th anniversary of their Franklin trip and their 13th wedding anniversary. All sweetness and light.





	Twenty-Five Years

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song “Forty-Five Years” by Stan Rogers and a photograph posted on CKR's Instagram.

Two touring motorcycles rumble to a stop, pull off the road and park at a low sandy turnout along the Pacific Rim Highway. Jagged stone cliffs and forests of wind-raked conifers line the secluded bay that runs alongside the road.

Ray shoves the the kickstand back and climbs off his bike -- his favorite -- the black and silver one with the blue trim. He takes off his helmet and sets it on the seat, pulls off his riding gloves and jams them into the pocket of his jeans. He reaches up to scrub a callused hand through the spikes of his silver hair, his metal beaded bracelet sliding down his wrist. He shrugs his shoulders inside his black leathers, rubs the back of his neck, scratches at his five-day old beard, and wipes his eyes underneath his dark sunglasses. 

It’s been a long ride on the MacKenzie highway to Vancouver Island, twenty five hours in the saddle but not all at once. They are taking their time. Another adventure. They are on a celebration ride in honor of the 25th anniversary of their Franklin trip and their 13th wedding anniversary. They’d gotten hitched the day Canada made it legal, at the courthouse in Yellowknife.

Wind soughs through the pines. Three enormous black ravens caw and laugh in the trees. Slate-gray waves roll onto the shore, the beach dotted by swathes of black-tusk basalt cobbles made smooth by currents of sand and water. Tubes of sea kelp and piles of bone-white driftwood lay scattered along the wrack line. The sky is sapphire blue, so intense it pains the eyes to see it. Ray squints, looking across the impossible distance to where the sea and sky become one, earth curving from view. No other people are there, just them.

Ray digs the worn heel of his boot into the soft tan-grey sand next to his bike, scratches a large “25” into the earth. He pulls his phone out of the breast pocket of his jacket, stands back, snaps a picture of his bike, the number, the bay in the background. 

“Come take a selfie with me,” he says to Ben, who has climbed off his own bike, which is black and yellow and covered with dust. 

Ben pulls off his helmet, white with black scuff marks. He threads a hand through his hair, gone to snow now, like a polar bear’s fur, his eyes reflecting the cobalt of the sky. Also sporting a five-day beard.

“Again?” 

“C’mere. I want to show the kids.” Ray says. 

“Is that an order?” 

“Sergeant Benton Fraser, get your ass over here.” 

“Yes, ma'am,” Ben laughs, and walks over to Ray.

They stand side by side next to Ray’s motorcycle, the sand-scratched number at their feet, salt sea wind rippling the beach grass. They smile. Ray snaps the picture. He takes a minute to post to Instagram with the comment, “25 years! Glad to be here. #anniversary.” A moment caught in time. 

He unlatches a pannier, rummages around, pulls out two plastic wine glasses and a bottle of sparkling apple juice, locks everything back up again, then heads towards the water.

Ben digs in his own saddlebags, grabs a pair of binoculars, slings them around his neck by the strap, and follows. 

Ray stops by a fallen weathered log that looks like it would make a nice bench, starts opening the bottle. He crumples the torn foil in his hand, stuffs it into his jeans pocket, unscrews the cap.

Ben scans the beach, points out a whale spout. Ray looks up and watches, then pours the cider. The bubbles cling to the sides of the glasses, rising in tiny streams that hiss when they reach the surface.

“Twenty five years,” Ray says.

“Twenty five years,” says Ben. “Here’s to the next twenty-five.” He taps his glass to Ray’s, and drinks. He takes both their glasses, sets them down, digging the round bases into the damp sand so they don’t fall over. Ray sets the bottle down, balancing it against the log.

Ben leans forward, takes off Ray’s sunglasses, and tucks the earpiece into the front of his shirt. He kisses Ray, deep and soft, their hands cupping the backs of each other’s necks. Ray goes weak in the knees, moans, pulls back to sit down.

“How do you still do that to me, after all this time?” 

“Practice,” Ben smirks. “Lots and lots of practice.” 

They kiss a little more, then put an arm around each other, snugged up tight side by side. They sit watching the waves in easy silence. Their blood sings with the wind and the waves, their lips tingling, their breathing in synch.

“It’s beautiful,” says Ray.

“Indeed,” says Ben, looking over at his husband. “And the scenery is nice too.”

Ray grins. Still dazzling. Ben thinks he wants that smile to be the last thing he ever sees. 

They wander the beach, exploring sea-caves, their ceilings lined by clicking goose-barnacles, ducking inside for secret kisses. Ray finds a smooth long stick, pokes at tidepools full of bright orange nubbly starfish and dusky pink chiton, green anemones with their tentacles waving, tiny snapping shrimp.

Ben closes his eyes to feel the wind on his face and breathes deeply of the salt sea air, feeling the sting of sand on his cheeks. Ray picks up shells, tucks them into his pockets. He finds a tiny heart-shaped stone, kisses it, hands it to Fraser. Ben smiles, puts the stone to his lips, then tosses it out to sea, saying, “So we will be here forever.” Still not one for things, still traveling lightly through life. 

The sun moves lower in the sky. It’s time to ride. 

As they walk back towards their bikes, Ray hums a song, and Ben sings along. He knows all the words.

They’ve rented a cabin in the village of Tofino, busy in summer but quieter now that the tourists have mostly gone. Ray prefers the luxury of four walls, a soft bed, and hot running water to sleeping on the ground, and Ben indulges him. The cold is colder, the ground harder, the old wounds reminding them more often now that their bodies have mellowed with age.

They sit on a bench on the porch of their cabin, feet propped up on the wooden railing. Steaming mugs of tea sit on wicker end tables. They hold hands and watch the sun set over Clayoquot Sound. A pod of killer whales, their fins glistening in the yellow light, cut the surface like knife blades then slide silently beneath the black. Eagles dive for fish, bats dart and chirp through the darkening pines. 

“Twenty five years. That’s a long time,” Ray says, taking a sip. 

“Yes, Ray.”

“You ever wonder what’s it all for?

“Not really,” Ben says. “I’m just happy to be alive.”

“Hm,” Ray says. “Me too.” He turns to stretch out on the bench, rests his head in Ben’s lap, snuggling in, warm. Ben strokes his hair, running fingernails gently over the scalp.

They fall silent again. Stars come out one by one, a crescent moon rises. The Milky Way arches across the sky like paint spatters sprinkled across the purpled-black canvas of heaven. Crickets fade and nightjars call. A screech owl lands on the porch rail, then takes off again on silent wings.

“You ever wish you were with anyone else?” Ray asks. Still insecure, even now.

“Never,” Ben says, holding Ray close. “I don’t say it enough, but I love you, Stanley Raymond Kowalski.” He raises the gold band on Ray’s left finger to his lips.

“Have I ever told you I’m the luckiest guy in the world?” Ray asks.

“Frequently. But you’re wrong. Because I am.”

Ray’s chest fills with warmth. “Still always got to be the winner, don’t you,” Ray chides. “But I love you anyway, Benton Robert Fraser.”

Ben smiles a little smile, hugs Ray tight, closer than he’s ever held anyone else. He tries to squeeze the love into him, tries to fill them both up with light. 

They go inside, driven indoors by the chill night breezes and drifts of hungry insects. Ben lights a fire in the stone fireplace, pushing the logs and tinder into place with the tip of a blackened wrought iron poker. The flames leap white and gold, sparks crackling, gradually dimming to ribbons of scarlet that ripple over the coals as the night deepens.

Ray changes into sleeping clothes, and Ben does the same. They curl up in bed together under fluffy duvets stuffed with down. Ray puts his cold feet onto Fraser’s legs to warm them and he yelps, but doesn’t retreat. He’s used to it, by now. It’s part of their rhythm, the ritual of sleep.

Ben tucks Ray into his arms and tells a story. Ray finishes the tale for him, drowsy words sliding from his lips as he drifts off to sleep, cradled in his lover’s embrace. He knows how all the stories end.

Except for the stories they haven’t written together yet. 

Those are for the next twenty-five years.

**Author's Note:**

> Complementary fanvid, "Forty-Five Years" by GallifreyWizard: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=desCcx6Uwsg

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Forty-Five Years (Fraser/RayK due South fanvid)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16085849) by [GallifreyWizard (lightspire)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightspire/pseuds/GallifreyWizard), [lightspire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightspire/pseuds/lightspire)
  * [Twenty-Five Years Selfie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17383448) by [lightspire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightspire/pseuds/lightspire)




End file.
